


Captive Audience

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Three/Ainley!Master, locked-up or imprisoned together. Bonus if it's post-Five Doctors" (a tidied old b_e kink meme fill) (original here: <a href="http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=198514#t198514">http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=198514#t198514</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captive Audience

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Captive Audience  
>  Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)**x_los**  
>  Rating: R  
>  Pairing: Three/Ainley!Master  
>  Summary: "Three/Ainley!Master, locked-up or imprisoned together. Bonus if it's post-Five Doctors" (a tidied old b_e kink meme fill) (original here: <http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=198514#t198514>)  
>  Beta: [](http://aralias.livejournal.com/profile)[**aralias**](http://aralias.livejournal.com/)

***

The Master thought he had the way out of the dungeon figured out--right up until he turned a corner and found himself in yet another long bank of cells. He looked about wildly for an exit, his eyes lighting instead on something entirely unexpected.

“Oh _no_.” The man chained to the wall wore an expression of horror mixed with tremendous irritation, as though he’d just discovered that the tires of his beloved junker had all been slashed. (Come to think of it, the Master really should have tried that.) “Not _you_ again!”

The Master opened his mouth to sneer that the Doctor’s presence (particularly _this_ Doctor’s) wasn’t in any way improving _his_ situation either, but he was incapacitated by a kosh to the back of his head before he could produce a witticism.

Apparently his pursuers knew their own prison better than he did.

***

When he awoke it was to the sound of the Doctor calling his name. He blinked blearily, slowly grasping that his fingers were sliding not over their sheets towards the source of the voice, but through dirt. His body didn’t feel quite right. The familiarity of the Doctor’s presence shifted like sand under him, became strange and barbed and foreign. Centuries that had been banished by the act of waking in such proximity to the Doctor’s mind, hearing the Doctor’s voice from the Doctor’s mouth, slid back into him in an instant. Right. Prison. He was escaping prison. Hopefully with—yes, he could feel it in his coat pocket, the glass vial whole and unbroken. They’d been idiots not to search him. He still had the serum.

The Master turned away from the Doctor, who was mounted on the rough stone wall like some sort of hunting trophy. He intended to stare at the shadowed, empty depths of the room until he was sure of his expression. Sleep always made his face telling, lent his features a degree of vulnerability he was careful to school them away from in the daylight. It wouldn’t do for the Doctor to see the lingering traces of what he’d felt as he realized that he wasn’t at home in bed with his lover, and (for a host of reasons he rediscovered as sleep slipped away) had no expectation of ever being so again. He was willing to admit to continuing desire: persistent loss was another matter altogether. In his mind, the qualities seemed reasonably discrete--and no dispassionate observer knew enough about the matter to contradict him, or would have dared to do so if they did.

“What are you in for, Doctor?” he said after a moment, voice calm. “Excessive blustering?”

“They seem to think I stole some sort of vial. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you?” The Doctor lobbed the accusation at him with half a sneer.

“Must you always be so suspicious?” The Master rubbed the back of his skull with a tight wince, and turned to face the Doctor.

“Of you? Leaving you in the universe is like leaving the fox in the hen house. I’m surprised Rassilon didn’t grasp that. Left at the mercy of a legendary tyrant and you’re still running around stealing volatile solutions and getting me jailed for your crimes. Typical.”

“You’d rather he’d killed me?” the Master asked bluntly. He stood, rising to invade the chained man’s personal space, leaning in. He grinned when the Doctor squirmed as though he’d very much like to take a step back. But there was nowhere to go, was there? The two of them in the depths of a stone dungeon. There was little the Doctor could do to stop him—everyone expected screaming from dungeons. People didn’t come to investigate that sort of thing. This, the Master thought, could be very interesting.

“Even after you begged that Chronovore to spare me,” he raised a thumb to the Doctor’s lip and smoothed it slowly, his challenging gaze almost daring the Doctor to try and bite, “you’d be content to know that I was disposed of?”

“That’s not precisely what I meant.” The Doctor kept his tone even, despite the way that, when his lips moved in speech, they swept across the Master’s leather-gloved thumb with the suggestion of a caress. You shot me, you know,” the Doctor reminded him. “That was the last I saw of you before the Death Zone. You deserved a little unkindness in turn.”

“An unfortunate accident,” the Master hissed, not at all pleased at being reminded of it. “As even you must have guessed.” With a movement like a spasm he controlled his features, and his tight grin relaxed slightly. “You would do well, my dear Doctor, to remember that only one of us is chained to a wall. Trivial jailers aside, you are quite at my mercy, aren’t you?” The Master leaned in so their faces were inches apart, letting his hand slide from the Doctor’s lips to his throat so he could _feel_ the Doctor swallow when he gathered the intent in the Master’s eyes. The Doctor’s Adam’s apple quivered under his palm like a bob on a tugged fishing line. Delicious.

For the Master this was all rather like unexpectedly getting the pony you’d wanted desperately when you were twelve at the age of sixteen. You’d largely let the whole matter drop, but then, presented with the creature, you readjusted your expectations and found that yes, you still quite liked the idea of something so beautiful being entirely yours.

“You wouldn’t _dare_.” The Doctor’s eyes were furious, and not a little afraid. This Doctor didn’t know how to manage him, not at all. If this were the current Doctor he would have hidden his fear, would have brushed the Master off with some nonchalant comment that diffused the tension. The current Doctor knew better than to up the ante by displaying how delightfully flustered the Master left him.

“Mm,” the Master agreed. “Certainly _your_ Master wouldn’t. Not your gentlemanly, devoted rival. Forever fondly indulging the hope that you’d have some epiphany, if he prodded you enough. He positively tiptoed around you. Strictly a low body count and respectful banter, keeping you from going mad from boredom, fixed as you were in space-time. And all without so much as a word of thanks from you. You never even let him touch you.”

He slipped a hand under the Doctor’s shirt, relishing the way the Doctor’s eyes flared wider. For the moment, he kept his his touch restrained. He turned to whisper into the Doctor’s ear, letting his breath slide across the skin there, stirring a white curl. “I’m not _your_ Master.”

“Master,” the Doctor’s voice tried for stern, which made the Master want to slap him. Best save that for later. “You can’t be seriously thinking of doing this. It’s beneath you.”

“Considering an act beneath me isn’t nearly as stimulating as having you in that position,” the Master pointed out. He was enjoying the Doctor’s consternation, the hitch in his breath that indicated his anger. “How highly susceptible you are. So easy to work up.” With the hand not toying with the Doctor’s throat, the Master stroked his way up the Doctor’s ruffle-obscured chest. His hand glided up over the fabric of the Doctor’s clothing before drifting back down to his cock. The Master found it easily in the near dark, and gave it a hard, measuring squeeze. “It seems your body’s intrigued enough.”

“I’m telling you no.” The Doctor’s protest was firm. He was unconvinced by his own obvious physical attraction.

“No?” the Master slipped his hand under fabric. He found the Doctor’s cock, began to work it with his hand and to feel the Doctor respond. “I remember you rejected my help when I risked my single life to preserve all of yours in the Death Zone. I believe you’ve exhausted your store of objections, Doctor.”

“Would you like an apology, then?” the Doctor spat, his tone coming closer to panic. “Fine. I should have been less childish during our encounter. I might’ve let you help me. It was foolish of me.”

“That’s certainly true, but, I am afraid, insufficient. I risked my body for you, and I want payment in kind. Lie still,” the Master suggested with a chuckle, “though you may find it difficult to do otherwise.”

***

In the morning, the warden arrived to find both men gone. One of the wall manacles appeared to have been neatly cut through with a bit of wire—though clearly only the free man could have managed that. The other was equally broken, but it had been frantically scratched at. It seemed as though the bound man had been left to free his other arm himself.


End file.
